Loose
by kdsch123
Summary: Dean gets in over his head and has the marks to prove it


Loose, Rough Soul

By Denise (kdsch123)

Supernatural

Pairing Dean/that's the story, after all…

NC-17 for language and adult content

There had never been a night like it before. Spending so much time around the dead and undead certainly took it's toll on a person: some recreation was called for, but this time, it might have gone too far. Dean sat up, ignoring the searing, sunburn like pain on his shoulders and back, the scratches that stung like fire on his sides. This was his motel room, but Sam was nowhere to be found. There was no evidence of Sam ever being there that night, either. Dean got out of bed, the soles of his feet possibly being the only parts on his body that didn't have some form of hurt going on, and he went to the shower. With every step, Dean cursed Ellen and her pitchers of cheap draft beer for his massive headache and the big, black spot in his memory. Stepping over the remains of his briefs, Dean shook his head, allowing hunter's instinct and curiosity to force him to piece the night before together.

The water was hot, and it stung the places on his body that weren't already, and the soap only added to the sensation, but Dean was used to pain. Pain. He had been leaning his chair back on two legs at the most out of the way table in Harvelle's he could find. It was uncommonly crowded there last night, Ellen a pretty blur behind the bar, while Jo kept popping over to where Sam and Ash were putting together the next job, snapping her gum, and allowing her hands to play on Sam's shoulders. His little brother didn't stop her, and Dean had raised his glass to them, in silent blessing. May all your children be male children…Dean drained his glass and filled it again from the pitcher Jo had been keeping bottomless for him. Ellen would have cut him off two pitchers ago. But it was okay. Apparently Dean had developed freaky mind powers better than Sam's – he was having visions.

Because no one like this chick would have EVER shown up in a dump like Harvelle's. EVER. A brunette, with a body that would not quit, dressed in skin tight leather. Surely a vision. No other guy in the place had even turned his head, and for that matter, of the women there, none had cast a single, jealous look in her direction. That right there meant she wasn't real, but Dean smiled at her anyway. She smiled back, dark curls contrasting with the soft white skin of her shoulders, and she sauntered toward him, swinging herself into the seat beside him. Blinded by deep cleavage, Dean stuttered something that might have been pretty slick, but his tongue was heavy from the beer. Didn't seem to bother his new friend though.

"Hi." She said. "You look like the only friendly soul here. Buy me a drink?"

"Honey, I'm done." Dean pushed the pitcher toward her. "This is all yours."

"Hmmm." She said, tapping her chin with a long finger. "All alone?"

"My brother is," Dean pointed toward Sam, his arm wobbling and the precarious balance he had on his chair finally complying with physics as he fell backwards. "over there…"

Dean could smell her beside him, sweet and ripe, through the leather, it seemed, and as she helped him up, he got a view down the leather vest she wore and felt his jeans get uncomfortably tight. "Are you okay? I'd hate to see you damaged…."

"Baby, I'm durable." Dean assured her. "I'm like that bunny…the one that doesn't quit…"

"A bunny." Her lashes were long and inky black. "Why not show me?"

"Show you? Well, hell yeah…" Dean looked at her incredulously. "I could take you back to my motel…"

"I'd love that…" Her eyes were full of lewd promise. "I'm ready for some fun…"

That's where it all went black, Dean thought, as the water from the shower poured over him. He remembered being here with her, and he remembered his clothes being shredded away from his body. It was a turn on at the time, but rough sex had never been a problem for him before, either. He couldn't remember more than that, well, maybe he could remember the taste of her mouth on his, and he could remember the way her nails dug into him as she screamed at the end. But those things weren't going to help him find her either.

Getting out of the shower, Dean grabbed a towel and started to dry off, wiping the steam from the mirror. A word floated across his vision, written on his skin, his dried blood making it easy to read. "Don't…" He blinked and leaned forward. That was across his chest, starting at the right shoulder. "Tell" was next, diagonal on his belly with a small, still bleeding "A" just over his navel. Finally, "Soul" was etched across his lower belly, his pubic hair the straight edge on which the word was balanced.

"Who'd freaking believe me anyway?" Dean asked himself, shaking his head. All these years of killing evil things, he finally went and got fucked by one. Go figure. Pulling a shirt on over his seeping cuts, Dean wondered if he'd ever see her again, to leave a few marks of his own on her. Maybe she left her number on my ass, he thought, trying to turn around to check. You never know.


End file.
